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She tilts her head, understandably puzzled by his question. “I’d have to ask the captain, sir.”
Ethan leans across me to get closer and I push back into my seat, scrunching my nose against the obnoxiously pleasant smell of his soap.
“And what do we think of the captain? Competent? Trustworthy?” Ethan winks, and I realize he’s no less anxious than he was a minute ago, but he’s coping via flirtation. “Well-rested?”
“Captain Blake is a great pilot,” she says, tilting her head and smiling.
I look back and forth between the two of them and dramatically fidget with the gold wedding band I borrowed from Tia Sylvia. No one notices.
Ethan gives her a smile—and wow, he could probably ask her for her social security number, a major credit card, and to bear his children, and she’d say yes. “Of course,” he says. “I mean it’s not like he’s ever crashed a plane or anything. Right?”
“Just the once,” she says, before straightening with a wink of her own and continuing on down the aisle.
• • •
FOR THE NEXT HOUR, ETHAN barely moves, doesn’t speak, and holds himself as if breathing too hard or somehow jostling the plane will make it fall out of the sky. I reach for my iPad before realizing that of course we don’t have Wi-Fi. I open a book, hoping to get lost in some delicious paranormal fun, but can’t seem to focus.
“An eight-hour flight, and there’s no movie,” I say to myself, glaring at the screenless seat back in front of me.
“Maybe they’re hoping your life flashing in front of your eyes will be distraction enough.”
“It lives.” I turn and look at him. “Won’t speaking upset the barometric pressure in the cabin or something?”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the penny again. “I haven’t ruled it out.”
We haven’t spent much time together, but from stories I’ve heard from both Dane and Ami, I feel like I’ve built a pretty accurate picture of Ethan in my head. Daredevil, adventure hound, ambitious, cutthroat . . .
The man clinging to the armrest as if his very life depends on it is . . . not that guy.
With a deep breath, he rolls his shoulders, grimacing. I’m five foot four and mildly uncomfortable. Ethan’s legs have to be at least ten feet long; I can’t imagine what it’s like for him. After he speaks, it’s like the stillness spell has broken: his knee bounces with nervous energy, his fingers tap against the drink tray until even the sweet old lady wearing a Day-Glo muumuu in front of us is giving him a dirty look. He smiles in apology.
“Tell me about that lucky penny of yours,” I say, motioning to the coin still clutched in his fist. “Why do you think it’s lucky?”
He seems to internally weigh the risk of interacting with me against the potential relief of distraction.
“I don’t really want to encourage conversation,” he says, “but what do you see?” He opens his palm.
“It’s from 1955,” I note.
“What else?”
I look closer. “Oh . . . you mean how the lettering is doubled?”
He leans in, pointing. “You can really see it right here, above Lincoln’s head.” Sure enough, the letters that read IN GOD WE TRUST have been stamped twice.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I admit.
“There’s only a few of them out there.” He rubs his thumb over the surface and slips it back into his pocket.
“Is it valuable?” I ask.
“Worth about a thousand dollars.”
“Holy shit!” I gasp.
We hit some mild turbulence, and Ethan’s eyes move wildly around the plane as if the oxygen masks might deploy at any moment.
Hoping to distract him again, I ask, “Where did you get it?”
